Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (51 page)

"I can't." She said, her voice thickening.

"Why is that?"

"Because I . . .
 
I'm–
 
I just like being with her,
okay?"

He lifted his head, leveling his golden eyes at her, which
were now dark with concern. "No, Lily, it isn't okay. This is a dangerous
game you're playing, and Shala's the one who'll get hurt."

As she listened to his plea, Lily realized that this man
stood for something. Yes, she'd felt loathing seeping from him, and during
their journey she knew he'd been sorely tempted to use that sharp blade of his
to wreak vengeance for his wife's murder. But his reverence for justice had
prevailed, and he'd delivered her unharmed into Star Dancer's hands.

Even now, as she saw hope flickering on his features at her
extended silence, she felt his struggle. They were alone. He could easily
dispose of her and tell the others she'd escaped. And yet he didn't. His
principals meant more to him than personal gratification.

She'd stood for something once—Lupine Law. She'd believed in
the Law, which had provided the rigid rules of conduct she'd longed for as a
human child. They were simple, straightforward rules Werewolves respected each
other's territories, didn't harm another's underlings, and honored one's
betters. Werewolves didn't kill each other. . . .

In one moment of rage and despair, she'd violated all she
held dear.

Even now, knowing White Hawk was right, she couldn't make
the sacrifice needed to protect Shala. Her loneliness ran too deep and the girl
was the only person who cared at all for her.

"I can't," she repeated.

His hope vanished, immediately replaced by outrage.
"You killed her mother, Lily!" he growled, springing to his feet.
"Have you no pity?"

A gasp followed his question, then a small voice said,
"Lily? But . . . but, you said . . ."

White Hawk's face sagged as he slowly turned toward his
daughter. Lily dropped her gaze, saw her own agonized eyes staring back . . .
watery . . . rippling with regret.

"You heard?" White Hawk asked dully, although the
air was heavy with the answer.

Shala bobbed her head. Tears slid slowly over her lower lids
and streaked down her face.

"Shala . . ." Lily swam toward the shore, reaching
out, longing to say it wasn't true, wanting only to see Shala's eyes again
sparkling with happiness.

"No!" Shala whirled and flung her arms around
White Hawk's waist, clutching hard. Her small shoulders shuddered, and Lily
knew she was crying even though she smothered her sobs. White Hawk put his
large hand on her back, turned, and guided her away.

As they moved out of sight, Lily heard him say, "I
didn't want you to find out this way."

"It's okay, Papa." Shala's voice sounded thin and
teary. "I won't go near her anymore."

Lily pressed her hands against her heart. Over half a year
ago, by her own unwise actions, she'd destroyed everything she valued. Then
this gentle light named Shala had appeared in her life. But all too briefly,
because now she was also gone.

Yes, Lily had stood for something once. But the golden-eyed
man who'd pleaded for his daughter's happiness still did.

And now Lily had destroyed that happiness too.

* * *

Tony approached the square cinder-block house his family had
lived in since the government tore down their wickiup. The white Buick was
parked crosswise in the dirt yard, a jack sitting beside one of its flat tires.
Two equally large cars in even worse disrepair sat farther off.

Moving between rolling tumbleweeds, Tony tightened his
collar against the chill wind. He’d sent the hawk to roost in a tree outside
his father's bedroom and knew what he would find. Delmar's bed was surrounded
by angel candles, crystals, and smudge pots. A crucifix graced one wall, the
suffering Jesus gazing down on Delmar's wasted form. A dream catcher hung above
the bed.

Although his father had long ago converted to Christianity,
in his last hours he'd permitted Uncle Joseph to waft smoldering rosemary and
chant Apache prayers for Delmar's place in the afterlife.

On the cement slab in front of the house, two boys and a
girl raced radio-controlled cars. After speeding the distance, the cars
careened onto the dirt, and the children ran to turn them over and begin the
race again.

Watching them made Tony think of Shala. He'd left her with
Star Dancer, and even though she had stopped crying long before he departed the
prior evening, he knew her spirit ached.

If he'd kept his peace Shala would never have found out. No
one else in the village would have told her—interference was not The People's
way. But Lily should have avoided her like he'd asked. The recollection of her
refusal strengthened his malice. She had killed the child's mother; now she'd
broken her heart.

"Hey, cousin Tony," called out one of the boys,
who was inspecting the underside of his vehicle for damage.

"Tony!" cried the other two children.

"Hey, kids," he called in return.

By the time he reached the patio a new race had started, and
Tony watched until the little cars flew off the slab again.

"I won!" cried the oldest boy, scampering to get
his car.

"If you slow them down, you can race them in a circle
and they won't fall into the dirt."

The boy glanced up from his shiny blue racer. "We
know."

Then he fell to his knees to line his car beside the others.
Tony stood and watched them for a while, recognizing he'd once again butted in
when events were progressing as they should.

When the race ended, the older boy said, "Mom and Dad
are inside with Grandfather."

"Thanks." Tony opened the door and went in. The
television was on with the volume turned down. Toys covered the carpet. An
open, half-full Fritos bag lay on the sofa.

He found his aunt in the kitchen briskly flattening dough
between her hands. The sizzle and steam of bubbling fry bread came from the
stove. A plate on the table held finished pieces. "I'm making it for
Delmar," she said, turning to give him a smile. "It's his
favorite."

She lifted a browned pastry from the fryer, put it on paper
towels to drain, then dropped the next one into the fat. Tony reached out toward
the table.

"You mind?"

Jenna shook her head. "Your father won't eat much
anyway."

Tony ripped off a chunk of the bread. Nobody made fry bread
like his Aunt Jenna and he savored the flavor. Soon his hawk spirit told him
Joseph had finished the prayer. He finished the last of the bread, then went
into the bedroom.

His uncle looked up from the sleeping man in the bed.
"Delmar has been asking for you."

Joseph took a smudge pot and a bird wing to a battered chest
and set them down, then led Tony as far from the bed as possible.

"He refuses to see the white doctors anymore or even
take their medicine," he said in a hushed tone.

"Is your medicine helping?"

"He sleeps, but the poison remains in his blood."
Joseph leaned toward Tony's ear, lowering his voice further. "You must
convince him he needs the white medicine. He'll listen to you."

"You want me to contradict his will?"

Joseph's eyes suddenly blazed. "He's your father, Tony!
You nearly killed him when you abandoned your career and went off to join that
wild tribe! Make up for it now by using your shaman's power!"

"Isn't that a contradiction, Uncle, using shaman
medicine to convince him to submit to the white doctors?"

"We've done enough dancing and chanting. It isn't doing
any good."

Tony saw his uncle's lined, worried face and felt his pain
over the impending loss of his brother—and his disillusionment. "Let me
sit with him. If his will to live is strong and this is not his time, he'll
survive the crisis. But if his soul yearns to cross over, not you or I or the
white medicine can save him. Don't you understand that?"

Joseph looked away. "Call me if there's a change."
He shuffled to the door and closed it softly behind him.

Tony crossed the room art sat in the chair beside the bed.
Delmar snored softly and peacefully in the aftermath of Joseph's ritual, and
Tony picked up his bony hand. When his father turned sixty that spring, Tony
requested leave from the Dawn People to attend the celebration. Even then he'd
felt this frailness. Years of hard living—too much rum and beer, too many
cigarettes, fatty foods, and sugar—had brought Delmar to this place where liver
damage and diabetes were slowly and painfully stealing his life essence.

Weary from the long trip, Tony leaned back and closed his
eyes. Although he didn't doze, his thoughts drifted, eventually coming to rest
on a childhood memory.

He'd been almost ten and Delmar had taken him camping on
Ebony Mountain. They'd driven in as far as possible in an old boat of a car,
stopping when the rutted roads finally ended. After lighting yet another Camel
cigarette, Delmar sat on the lip of the trunk, leaned in and ripped the
wrapping off several twelve-packs of beer. As he began methodically stacking
the cans inside a backpack, he caught Tony staring at them. "Nectar for
the soul," he said. "But not for you until you're old enough."

He came to the last can, put it on the trunk floor and
reached for the supply of Coke which he piled in on top of the beer. After
adding food, he put the backpack on the ground.

"Ready for the bags, Tony?"

He nodded eagerly. Since their first trip, taken shortly
after the death of Tony's mother three years before, his father had assigned
the sleeping bags to Tony. The task always made him feel he was doing his part.

Gazing into the forest while his father strapped on the
bags, he saw a raven land in a tall pine.

"See that, Dad?" He pointed at the bird.
"Uncle Joseph says Raven created the world."

"And his old teacher would tell you it was
Turtle," Delmar replied with a laugh. "At least on Mondays. By
Thursday he'd say it was Coyote. Those are just stories, Tony, and if your
uncle had ever been born again into Jesus he'd know it."

"But Uncle Joseph talks to the spirits."

His father stood up, threw down his cigarette and crushed it
on the ground. "Well I talk to Jesus, and Jesus talks to God."
Picking up the backpack, he slipped his arms into the straps. "Enough
tales of the old ways," he said. "Let's see what surprises nature has
in store for us today."

Grabbing the beer from the trunk, he slammed the lid and
cocked his head toward Tony. "Come on, son. It's a long hike to the
creek."

With that he popped the top on the can, took a healthy swig,
and started walking into the forest.

Still taking peeks at the raven, Tony followed, not knowing
what to believe, as usual. The conversation was the first of many to follow,
and eventually Tony rejected both his father's and his uncle's spirituality. He
put his energy into doing well in school, playing football, and making the
honor role. When he first encountered Tajaya in the mountains, he hadn't given
thought to the subject of spiritualism in years.

He never dreamed meeting her would lead him to shamanism,
and as he sat holding his father's hand the bitter irony didn't escape him.
After years of discipline in the magic of healing, he possessed the skills to
help his father live a while longer, yet he knew such action would only violate
nature's rhythm and prolong his father's suffering. Still, he could lessen the
pain of the ulcerated leg.

Opening his heavy lids, he stood and lifted the blanket.
Someone, probably Jenna, had elevated his father's leg and swaddled it in heavy
bandages. Calling on the spirits, Tony felt the familiar electric sensation
travel through his fingers as he placed his hands on Delmar's diseased flesh.
After a short time, Delmar's eyes fluttered open.

"Well, if it isn't my son the computer genius," he
said in a cracking voice. "Come to see me off." Then a wide smile
crossed his ravaged face. "I'm so glad to see you, Tony."

* * *

Delmar died peacefully in his sleep three days after Tony
arrived. He had a Christian burial that included none of the old ways, and
though Uncle Joseph lamented this decision, he stoically endured the service.
Later, after Delmar had been cremated, he handed Tony the urn filled with ashes
and asked him to speak to the Great Spirit in Delmar's behalf when he scattered
them.

Tony embraced his uncle, gave his aunt a kiss, then left for
Ebony Canyon. He'd been gone from the canyon five days.

Now, passing Morgan Wilder's burned-out cabin, he paused,
remembering the afternoon he'd set it afire at Morgan's request. The crumbling
remains still seemed an affirmation to him of triumph over all that was unholy,
and he stared at it awhile.

Instead of bringing thoughts of victory, however, it brought
memories of Lily. Not the huge sleek werewolf with her groomed silver coat, but
the naked, mud-covered woman he'd found in the forest bordering the Clearing of
the Black Hands. She'd snarled and snapped at him, speaking in that unintelligible
language that those creatures used. But she'd been human, slender, short of
stature, and still fighting.

He'd also seen her genuine remorse when she'd fallen on the
lifeless body that had once been her companion. Slain by her own hands, yet
regretted by her heart.

Tony turned away impatiently. Why was he thinking such
things? What remorse had Lily shown for the lost lives of his people?

Searching for more evidence of her evil nature, he walked to
the rim of the canyon, where he planned to free his father's ashes, letting
them drift into the canyon. His spirit had always been happy here.

The walk was short and he unlaced his satchel on the way,
taking out the brass urn when he reached his destination. Lightning ripped
across distant storm clouds. The air was heavy. And still. Although the clouds
rushed across the mottled sky, not a breath of wind stirred the surrounding
grass and trees. A monsoon would strike the canyon tonight. He hoped it brought
rain, but experience told him it might only bring Brother Wind.